Steve Braunias: The secret diary of ... Steven Joyce

Illustration / Supplied

Monday

Just as I sit down for breakfast the phone rings and it's Sky CEO Nigel Morrison demanding I come over right now and go through new costings for the convention centre or the whole deal is off. No problem. I grab toast, sausages, tomatoes, hash browns and a lamb chop to go, and scamper across town.

He presents the figures and draws up an architectural plan and says that without government funding the conventional centre will be minus windows, light bulbs and women's toilets on the third floor.

I tell him if you carry the two and divide by six and move that column over to the left and this column over to the right and shake it all about then it's entirely possible to make an allowance for three windows and five light bulbs on the second floor.

"Tell you what, sport," he says. "Gizzus that toast in your pocket and we'll throw it in the women's toilets on the sixth floor."

I weigh up the toast and figure I can always get my hands on some more down the line so I narrow my eyes and say to him, "Deal."

It's only when I get back to the office that I remember the convention centre doesn't have a sixth floor.

Tuesday

Just as I sit down to microwave yesterday's breakfast the phone rings and it's my mole in the America's Cup syndicate saying that Dean Barker is in for the chop and without him any chance of winning the next series is lost. No worries. I grab sausages, tomatoes, hash browns, and a lamb chop to go, and head for the waterfront.

I figure that if I delegate one or two minor responsibilities to the Prime Minister then I'll be able to find the time to helm the black boat to victory, but first I just need a bit of practice.

I climb on board and take the wheel. It feels good to be out on the open waters in Auckland harbour. It's a smooth crossing and everything is going great until we come into dock. I was in a bit of a hurry to get back to work and hit the wharf at full speed.

No lives were lost but the sausages flew out of my pocket on impact and landed in the water. I figured it was best to leave the scene as quickly as possible before anyone noticed I was at the controls of the Devonport ferry.

Wednesday

Just as I sit down to pop yesterday's hash brown in the toaster and eat it with the tomatoes and lamb chop that would have tasted good cold, the phone rings and it's my informant in the biosecurity hazards sector saying that the Queensland fruit fly is on the loose in Auckland. Not a hassle. I grab the cold food and pop the hash browns, but they get stuck in the toaster so I try to get them out with a fork.

I arrive at the fruit fly control centre with my head still smoking from the electric shock, and call for calm. I order that the entire city be cordoned off with roadblocks and police tape. Anyone seen with an item of fruit will be placed under arrest. A tomato is not a fruit and as such I cannot be held responsible in any way for the fact that my tomatoes appear to have attracted the Queensland fruit fly but the sight of it is making me like totally freak out man.

"I think you need to lie down, boss," says a voice.

Thursday

The country is going to rack and ruin without my hand on the tiller but the hospital won't let me out of bed until they've run more tests. The Prime Minister visits. "Glad you took my advice, boss," he says.

Friday

Just as I get home and sit down for breakfast the phone rings. A lobby group calling themselves Prominent New Zealanders want name suppression in case they face criminal charges. Sounds fair. No big deal. Anyway, I'm hungry.